


am i in love? but who are you to say?

by queenmcgonagall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:53:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmcgonagall/pseuds/queenmcgonagall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>quiet contemplation of love through whoever’s eyes you choose this to be</p>
            </blockquote>





	am i in love? but who are you to say?

Your hips poke me in the night. They leave kiss shaped bruises on my thigh and I press my fingers into them the next day and feel the sweet, stinging reminder of you. 

You open your eyes and I see more black than green, pupils blown, and I think what have you done to me.

The pads of your fingers linger in the hollows of my ribs, tracing words into them, as if you dipped your finger in midnight ink and wrote poems in the shape of ribbons on my skin. I want to keep the jagged words there, inhale them when I sit in the dusty corner of our life and wait for your colour to paint in the lines of my patience. 

Why do they call it falling in love? Do they call it that because there is no end? Do they call it that because you’re not in control, everything goes by and you watch and you listen but you stay still and the world goes on around you. Love is free-fall and you can’t catch yourself.

We sit on the sofa, the news is on. I sip my tea. You throw popcorn into your mouth and miss, 1, 2, 3, and then make it on the 4th toss. You smile at me, all teeth, and I lean over and lick your chin, because I can and because you taste of butter and salt and a little bit like me.

You dig your toes under my legs, wiggling them, wiggling your eyebrows. Your fingers dance a waltz on the back of the sofa, the soft thump of flesh on fabric matching the beating of your heart in the silence. I smile into my teacup. I want nothing more than to go over and lock the door, turn off the light, and press the button that says ‘stop’. I want to hold this moment in marble, carve it into history and leave it for lovelorn wanderers to gaze at and wonder who we were and what we ever did to deserve this love.

Can I ask you something?

You, the person reading this. Do you believe in love? Does your heart beat for one person, do you smile for that person? Is there a hole in your chest shaped like a boy? A girl? 

Now you, you with the popcorn. Do you love me? Do you wake up in the morning and open your eyes and all you want to do is see my face?

I have a hole in my chest. It’s shaped like you. Sometimes you fill it, fill me up to the point of blissful mindlessness. Other times the edges of the gaping cavern flap in the winds of our sorrow and our regrets and the tissue around my heart cauterizes, stills itself, waiting for you to get back and whisper apologies into my apologies, whisper love into my love. 

The lights, the screams, the flashes…doesn’t it get to you? How do you saunter out, hips swaying, smile in place? How does it not beat on you from every direction, a dull ache that burns and groans and constricts your throat? The flashes of the cameras burns on the inside of my eyelids and all I want is your toes under my leg, your lips on my knee, mouthing mine, us, you. All I want is our bed, the sheets that smell like you and like sex and like love. 

Am I in love? Do I even know what love is? I’m 20, what do I know of love? 

Know who I am yet?

Our fingers always reach to each other. My thumb craves your thumb. Could I be so bold and call us magnetic? Is that too much?

You beat in me. You beat inside my chest, my spine, my head.

I open my eyes, the weak sunshine is falling softly against your gently rising chest. I shuffle closer, press my toes to the soft curve of your heel, cold against warm, and I trace the bones of your ankle. 

Marble and stone, that’s all we are, all we ever will be, and all I ever want. We are not sand, we are not water. We are immovable, unbearably eternal in all our damaging love, in all our destroyed marriage of love and hurt, ecstasy and pain, public and private, hopeful and burnt. 

Am I in love? Is this what love feels like? Is it your smile, the one with the crinkly edges and the upturned lip? Is it your fingers around mine, squeezing a little bit of perseverance back into me? I think maybe it’s your big hands holding my hips into the bed while you pound into me and whisper i love you into my neck, teeth biting and irrevocably imprinting the words into my passion-heated skin. I think maybe it’s the finger-shaped bruises that never fade, the ones you kiss and press back into my skin every night.

What do you think?

What do you think of us?

Or do you, the one reading this, even have the right to judge our achingly hidden love.

I think I’m in love. I think I love him.

But guess what?

I’m in love and he’s in love and you will never know what it feels like to be marble with him, to love him and be loved by him. 

You will never know and I feel sorry for you, but that’s the way it should be.


End file.
